Banks scratched his scar. “You know, I’m not always too sure, myself, Mr. Norrington. I often feel as if I’m just digging around until my shovel hits something. I tell you what. Why don’t you just take your jacket off, again, nice and informal like, then sit down, and we’ll carry on. OK?”

Norrington hesitated, then seemed to relax and did as Banks suggested, though the suspicious expression remained on his face. “All right,” he said, spreading his hands. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Good. Can you give us a list of the investors who’ve signed up for Drewick already?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged information. I can’t just go around giving out names. Some of these individuals might wish to remain anonymous. Surely you understand that?”

Banks leaned forward. “Mr. Norrington, perhaps it’s us who ought to bring our legal representatives. In our case, it’s called the Crown Prosecution Ser­vice, and they’re very busy, but I’m sure we could persuade someone it’s for a good cause. Next to the Internal Revenue, bankers, town planners and lawyers themselves, property developers are pretty low down in the popularity stakes, you know.”

“We do an important and necessary job.”

“Just as we do,” said Banks. “So let’s all do it. Accepting that you are an honest businessman, it doesn’t have to follow that all of your investors are. One of them might have had an idea for putting the property to good use while he waited for a return on his investment.”

Norrington ummed and aahed for a while longer, then rang through to his secretary and asked her to make a photocopy of the Drewick Shopping Centre investor list. “Just to show we’ve nothing to hide,” he added. “Though I would appreciate your discretion in the matter.”

“We’ll prove the very souls of discretion, don’t you worry.” It would probably come to nothing, Banks knew, as anyone who was using the hangar for criminal purposes was hardly likely to be connected to the place on paper. But it all had to be checked; criminals get too clever and slip up, or they’re just plain stupid to start with. The secretary knocked and entered with the photocopy, which Norrington directed her to give to Banks.

“Is there anything else?” Norrington asked.

“Have you ever visited the site yourself?”

“Once. Years ago, when we first acquired the property.”

“2009?”

“Around then, yes.”

“Do you always check out your firm’s acquisitions?”

“I usually try to.”

“Perhaps you could have your secretary make us a copy of the list of other properties your company is preparing for development before we leave, too?”

“Wait a minute. I’ve already given you the list of investors, against my better judgment. I really don’t see why we should be expected to give you a list of our properties.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Again, it’s private information, privileged.”

“Mr. Norrington, your company owns a property on which a brutal murder has been committed, and which we believe to be a transfer point for stolen-­goods shipments. How do we know you aren’t using other properties you own for the same purposes? Absentee landlords or not, Venture Property Developments can’t shirk responsibility entirely. Or the publicity that could come with it.” Banks glanced at Annie. “I’m sure you can get a court order in an hour or less, DI Cabbot. I’ll wait here with Mr. Norrington until you get back.”

Annie stood up. Banks held his breath as she walked to the door. There was no way she could return with a court order within a ­couple of hours, so he could only hope his bluff worked.

“Wait. Wait,” said Norrington, waving his hand as Annie grasped the door handle. “If it’ll get rid of you once and for all, fine. I’ve got work to do.” Slowly he picked up the phone and gave the instructions. After he had done so, he went on: “I would like to inform you, however, that I don’t appreciate threats, and I will be talking to the company’s legal department immediately after you leave. Any further intrusions into our time and our business records will be a lot more difficult to carry out and will be done in the presence of legal representation. And remember the names on that list are private property.”

Banks and Annie got up to leave. “Thanks, Mr. Norrington, you’ve been a great help,” Banks said over his shoulder. “You certainly sound as if you know the drill. No, don’t bother to see us out. We’ll pick up the list of properties from your secretary on our way.”

9

THE TEAM GATHERED IN THE BOARDROOM AT THE END of the day, as the last rays of sunlight struggled in vain to blaze a trail of glory through the thickening clouds. Gervaise, Banks, Annie, Gerry Masterson, Stefan, Jazz Singh and Winsome were present. Only Doug Wilson among the major team members was missing, and as soon as he had organized his replacements to keep watch over Alex and Ian Preston, his job would be done for the day. He had already reported no progress with the train companies. Banks had guessed it might lead to nothing, but it was an avenue that had to be explored. Someone had sent to the canteen for a pot of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits. Banks was thinking a bottle of wine or a barrel of beer would not have gone amiss. His mouth watered when he remembered the old Maigret stories his father had introduced him to: Maigret was always sending out to the local bar for beer and sandwiches from the Brasserie Dauphine. No such luck here.

The overhead fluorescent lights were turned off and a ­couple of tasteful shaded lamps provided a soft ambient glow that everyone seemed to need after the long and frustrating day they’d had. Banks knew they needed a break in the case soon, and the meeting was being held to try to determine from which direction that lead might come. Tacked to the whiteboard next to a sketch of Morgan Spencer and a picture of Beddoes’s bright green Deutz-­Fahr Agrotron were images of the penetrating bolt gun and the man Alex had described to the police sketch artist. There was no news from Vic Manson on the fingerprints yet, but Banks knew that Vic was a patient man, and sometimes these things took time to get right. He’d come up with something, even if they had to wait until tomorrow.

Jazz Singh was a bit faster with DNA, and she spoke first. “I won’t bore you with the technical details,” she said. “Not that you’d understand them. First, and perhaps most important, we have a match between the DNA extracted from the blood at the hangar near Drewick and that taken from the body discovered in the Vaughn’s van crash. And to be clear, I don’t mean the driver, but the other body, the one that was cut up and put in bin bags.”

“So it was Morgan Spencer who was killed at the hangar,” said Banks.

“Hold your horses,” said Jazz. “I didn’t say that. I simply said they were the same. We don’t have a sample of anything we know to be Morgan Spencer’s DNA, so I can’t say for certain it’s him. Everything he owned was destroyed when his caravan burned down, and he’s not on any of our databases.”

“OK,” said Banks. “We recognized Morgan Spencer from the crash site, especially after the searchers found his head.” He pointed toward the sketch on the board. “That’s how everyone we know who’s seen him says he looks. Especially Alex Preston.”

“What about his parents?” asked Winsome.

“His father is proving difficult to contact,” said Banks. “We understand he’s somewhere in Barbados, but other than that . . . His mother lives in Sunderland. She’s an ex-­junkie and her mental health is precarious. She lives in a halfway house and has very few personal possessions, none of which include a photograph of her son. Apparently, she lost touch with Morgan some years ago, when she lost touch with the rest of the world.”

“We’ve had a look around Spencer’s lockup,” said Stefan Nowak, “but I don’t know if there’s anything that can help you in there, Jazz. You’re welcome to have a look. You might find a hair or something. No sign of his removal lorry or his motorbike, but we found traces of oil, petrol and red diesel.”